


falling feels like flying (for a little while)

by mswyrr



Series: Post-S1 D/s-Verse [3]
Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Kink Negotiation, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswyrr/pseuds/mswyrr
Summary: Six months in, good chemistry and great sex can only get them so far.





	

Mariah had put him in a room with no lock on the door. He never asked for one, which she took to mean he understood that was part of this. She could come in any time.

She could do whatever she wanted.

That was the fantasy: him just down the hall, all hers for the taking. She nurtured the thought, turning it over and over in her mind. There were so many ways to play it. She didn’t even have to do anything with it. Just putting him there and keeping him there alone, whenever she thought of it, made pleasure uncurl in her chest, blossoming like the petals of some beautiful, poisonous flower.

She would lie in bed and drift off to sleep thinking about it. It had a life of its own inside her, singing _I want, I want, I want_. For months, she toyed with both of them, doing all the other things she could think of first. She let the knowledge that she _could_ live between them, until its rhythm became like the beating of her own heart.

_I want, I want, I want._

It felt like a delicious sin when she finally decided it was time. She stood, her legs a little shaky, heat like a fever in her belly, and pulled on her green silk robe. Each step down the hall was a delight.

Through her experiments with making him delay gratification, she had learned something about its pleasures herself. She liked to wait and think. Make desire hammer its fists against her heart long and hard before she let it have its way.

When she came into his room it was even better than she expected: he was sitting in bed, only the reading light on, a book open in his lap. He had on simple black cotton pajama bottoms and no top. His tough guy muscles and tattoos made a cute contrast with the book and prescription glasses she found out he needed to read.

It was such a sweet picture. That made messing it up even more fun.

She walked over, brushed her fingers gently over his chest and up to his collarbone as he watched, silent and alert. Waiting for her.

Then she pulled his glasses off roughly, tossed them on the bed. He tensed, eyes widening. The book was a mass market hardback copy of _The Fiery Trial_ , which she recommended to him after ranting about the white savior crap in Spielberg’s _Lincoln_. Good book, but not a favorite. And not one of her rare first editions. It could be replaced.

She grabbed it out of his hands and threw it at the other side of the room. It made a very satisfying crack as the spine broke.

His breath picked up at that. “Mariah?”

“Quiet,“ she said. “Lie down.”

She reached up and clicked off the reading light. The room was dark then, except for the thin streetlight that came in around the curtain. Without the light on, the whole room felt like it was part of her. Warm and powerful. She was all around him, containing and controlling him. He belonged to her.

When he didn’t move fast enough she grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down onto his back.

“Mariah—” he started. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice. Usually she gave him verbal directions, guidance he could use to anticipate her interests. But this wasn’t about him providing her a service, this was about her coming in whenever she felt like it and taking what she wanted.

She reached up, touched his face to make sure she was right about their relative positions. Then she pulled her hand back and brought it down hard, slapping him.

He let out a grunt.

“I said to be quiet,” she repeated and then waited to see if he wanted to test her again.

He didn’t. He stayed there on his back just the way she wanted him. He was hers and she could do as she pleased.

Mariah smiled and stood, slipped her silk pajama bottoms off. The dark was nice because there was no need to use a cool front for effect. She could grin and eagerly pull her own clothes off like a teenager.

“Move down,” she said, guiding him by the shoulder. Then she got on the bed, spread her legs over his head, and felt the visceral satisfaction of pressing her pussy into his mouth. She was wet and she felt rude and pushy and just a little _mean_ as she literally rubbed his face in it. His face probably still stung from the slap she gave him. She liked that. He shuddered under her, gasping for what breath she allowed him.

He caught on quickly, his hands coming up to stroke and cup her ass, his mouth and tongue working against her. He was such a good boy. There was nothing of her he didn’t want and eagerly too. That was what made the cruelty satisfying: knowing it was wanted. She braced herself against the headboard and fucked his face. Because he was her whore and her boy and her baby and he wanted it. He wanted every cruel, thorny, possessive, difficult thing in her heart. He wanted her wet pussy all over his face. And at the end of it all he would look at her like she was a queen.

Usually it took fingers to get her off when he went down on her. But this time when he reached for her she stopped his hand, pushed it back to its spot cupping her ass.

She wanted to make him work for this. She wanted to drag it out until he wasn’t sure it was ever going to be over. His lungs would start to burn as the air he got wasn’t ever quite enough and his head would go dizzy. She kept on riding him, her beautiful whore, her boy, her bitch -- hers no matter what name you called it, and waited to feel him get to that place. She paid attention to the sound of his breathing, the movement of his mouth licking and sucking at her like she was the sweetest nectar. It was only when she was sure that she reached down, worked her fingers in between them and finished herself off.

As the aftershocks of her orgasm shuddered through her, she reached down and stroked his head between her legs tenderly, mixing rough and sweet. She wanted a moment like that, to connect, let him know how good he was. Then she moved off him, grabbing her pajama pants off the floor. He was silent except for his rough breathing. They both knew his orgasm was not part of her plan tonight, though her standing direction was that he could get himself off after unless she said otherwise.

She smiled down at where the faint light from the window outlined his body. The thought of him touching himself off after she left, yearning for more in his belly and having nothing but the taste of her on his lips to satisfy it, was a good one. She left the room with delight filling up her heart. There was triumph in every step back down the hall.

-

 

The next morning, she came into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and poured herself a cup of coffee from the French press. Shades was in the breakfast nook. When he looked up, she saw he had a busted lip. It was a mess: a gash on his lower lip, bruising and swelling around it. She felt a rush of anger at whoever had managed to get past his guard.

Then she realized he hadn’t gone out last night. It must have been her. But she hadn’t slapped him _that_ hard, had she?

“You owe me a new book,” he teased, a grin tugging at the uninjured corner of his mouth. It was the kind of light banter that meant he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. But how could he be talking like that when…

“Your face—“ she started.

“Oh,” he said, as if he’d forgotten about it. “Yeah, I think you caught my lip with your ring.“

Mariah looked down at the simple gold and emerald piece. Why hadn’t she thought to take it off? It was irresponsible. _Inexcusable_.

“It could scar,” she said.

He shrugged. “Something to remember by,” he said, “not that I’d forget a night like that.” There was heat in his eyes, like this was just one of those sexy little things couples did.

_My lover fucked my face up, isn’t that sweet?_

It reminded her of one of Mama Mabel’s girls, sporting two black eyes and joking with Sister Boy that the John who did it “had to tell me twice.” Mariah set her coffee down, feeling sick. There was a knot of shame in her stomach. She was angry at him too — what the hell was wrong with him?

The words almost came out her mouth, but she held them back. She felt wrong-footed. Last night was gone now. The fantasy she’d cherished in her heart had turned to shit in the light of day. It was all the more disturbing because her partner in it refused to admit that.

He should have told her to stop. If he knew her at all, he should know she wanted it to be good for him. Even teasing and delaying gratification was supposed to be good. Feeling good was the _point_ of sex. If you weren’t doing it for that, what the hell were you doing? At least he could have talked to her straight about it now – acknowledge it was a mistake, ask her to be more careful. She would apologize and they would move on. Only a bully held themselves above apologizing. They were perverts, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be good to each other. Surely this thing of theirs should include that kind of basic decency too. Shouldn’t it?

The knot of shame and anger in her gut twisted tighter. How could it even be a real relationship if it didn’t?

Shades had put a white butterfly bandage on it to hold it closed, but it still looked like shit. There was an open wound on his face, for christ’s sake. He probably needed stitches. She focused on fixing her mistake. “Clear your morning and go to the doctor,” she said, holding on to her composure. “You need to get that looked at.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ve had worse—“

Mariah gave the countertop a short, sharp smack. “I am not _inviting comment_ ,” she bit out. “I’m telling you.”

His posture stiffened. “Okay,” he said slowly. He was looking at her like _she_ was the crazy one here.

Mariah grabbed her coffee and went back upstairs. She was too sick with both of them to sit there and eat breakfast with him.

If Alex came in looking like that, she’d encourage him to leave the boyfriend who’d done it. When she was a councilwoman, she had helped direct funding to domestic violence shelters in Harlem. There was one she still sent private donations to twice a year. Somewhere in the back of her closet was a t-shirt they gave her with a purple ribbon and the phrase _Love Shouldn’t Hurt_ emblazoned across the chest. It was ugly. Mariah had worn it exactly once, to an event with media coverage. She never understood why good causes and bad fashion went hand-in-hand, but her years in public office taught her it was true.

Ugly or not, she did agree with the sentiment. But this love did hurt. Until now, she thought there were limits on that: it was supposed to be fun. She wasn’t into his side of things, but even she knew a little pain could be part of pleasure. That was fine. She enjoyed playing with it. But what happened last night was not that. With that cut on his mouth, it couldn’t have been fun. It must have just hurt like hell. The sounds of pleasure she thought he was making… he must have just been enduring it, hurting as she tore at an open wound. So, why the hell hadn’t he told her?

Well, she _had_ told him to be quiet, hadn’t she? And hit him in the face for speaking _._ She’d never told him explicitly that he could always say no, even if he wasn’t allowed to say anything else. But if he really had been thinking, every time she told him to be silent, that he wasn’t allowed to even object — what kind of person did he think she was?

She thought he knew her. And she thought she knew him, but what kind of person wanted to be on the receiving end of a relationship like that? She did something wrong and he sat there minimizing it. It was one of the ways that people who were resigned to abuse handled things. That pulled the rug out from under her. If that was his mindset, then where did it stop? Where were the lines? She’d been entrusting him with pieces of her heart. She thought he understood what that meant. But now…

It felt like a pit was yawning open at her feet.

-

 

Uneasiness followed her through the day, but she was too busy to do anything about it. Criminal empires didn’t run themselves.

When she got home, she poured herself a glass of red wine and opened Google Scholar. There was no need to sit here feeling helpless when there was knowledge at her fingertips. Unfortunately, academic work on the subject wasn’t helpful. It focused mainly on the sociology of kink groups and the implications of kink in gender theory. Several articles informed her that ( _quelle surprise_ ) there was prejudice against people who engaged in these “marginalized practices.”

She went to bed still feeling uneasy. The next evening, she turned to the open Internet in frustration. Poking around for useful information was a frustrating experience there too, however. Most of the people putting the details of their kinky personal lives online were very young. And very white. There was a facile obsession with describing things in terms of masters and slaves that was distasteful to her.

She found a few people worth listening to. Older people, mostly, who had some perspective. Then she found a blog by a young Black lesbian self-identified “sub” who had her head together. She wrote as thoughtfully about society and power as she did about the joys of nipple clamps. Her dom/girlfriend was a tall, thin woman with long dreads; their picture in the blog’s sidebar was what made Mariah look closer. They were shot from the side, their faces obscured. Nude. The shorter, rounder blogger snuggled up in her partner’s lap, her lover’s hand resting tenderly in the small of her back.

It _was_ possible to do this and be good to each other. She just had to figure out how.

The saner people agreed on basics like safewords and negotiations, which seemed easy enough to implement. There were even detailed guides about how to safely try some of the things she’d been curious about. But there was a great deal more that was simply irresponsible or grotesque. A minority of edgy fools who said things like “your safeword, should your Master choose to allow you one…” It made Mariah’s face screw up in disgust. And not just because of the appalling titles. It confirmed her suspicion that Shades _could_ very well think she hadn’t given him the right to object. That he could actually consider the right to object something she could give or take away.

Mariah didn’t understand that. If one person could do anything and the other person just had to endure it — how was that even consensual sex anymore? That was definitely not something she had any interest in. Of course she liked thinking about using and controlling him, but that was a fantasy. It was good because she knew—or thought she knew—that he would stop it if he wasn’t enjoying himself.

She found herself running it around in her mind. The pleasurable secret she’d been keeping suddenly tinged with seaminess. It reminded her of the white men who came to Mama Mabel’s with _peculiar_ tastes. Men who just wanted dirty things done to them and the person doing them didn’t matter, except as a fetish.

Was _that_ what she was playing along with all this time? But it didn’t feel that way; she wasn’t playing a role. She was living together and having sex with her lover. The specifics were new and exciting, but it was still about intimacy, pleasure. She was sharing something of herself, letting someone into the strange and thorny corners of her heart. She thought she’d found someone who saw something there to love.

Could he really act the way he did with her and just want a blow-up doll with a whip? How did _he_ understand his side of things? Did it share anything in common with some of the more disturbing things she’d read?

She hoped not, but she was reluctant to bring it up. She had begun to consider him and Alex her only real family. If he thought they were just business partners with some filthy fucking on the side… The only thing more humiliating than being so terribly wrong would be letting him know about it.

There were a lot of images too. Most bored her, others inspired disgust. But there was a third category, the most shocking one: images that could turn her on quicker than any other image had seen in her life. These shared a lot in common, most featuring handsome men and butch women arranged in graceful and clearly painful positions. All their strength was bent to striving to be good for the lovers they wanted to please.

Clearly there was something here she wanted. Even if it was right next to things that disturbed her sense of good aesthetics, if nothing else. And now she had the tools to take responsible control of this, instead of relying on Shades to read her mind. She made a point of saying “tell me if you want me to stop” the next time they had sex. Put things on pause until he said he would. She had longer term plans for negotiating and introducing the question of some of her newer interests. She could feel this out, as she had with everything else between them, test him, find a way forward. And if he really didn’t see this as a relationship the way she did, she could handle that too.

All of that went to hell one evening when a video started autoplaying as she clicked through from one site to the next. Her laptop’s speakers sent hoarse cries, the snap of a whip, and moans echoing through the living room for what felt like an eternity as she found the mute button.

When she looked up, Shades was leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, a smirk spread across his face. His lip was healing up well. That was something.

“Getting inspired?”

Embarrassment burned over her. “Mind your own damn business,” she snapped.

The smirk dropped. He spread his hands. “Okay,” he said, and continued toward the kitchen.

Long minutes passed as she shut down every window she had open. She cleared her browser history too, for good measure.

When he came back out, he had a sandwich on a plate in one hand. He was wearing a black t-shirt and grey slacks. Normal weekday evening. He didn’t _look_ like someone who only wanted her around to dress her up in latex and have her call him a slave… He was headed back upstairs.

“Wait,” she said. “Take a seat.”

He sat at the other end of the couch, his usual spot, and set the plate down on the coffee table. Watched her silently. They both knew he was supposed to wait for her. That she was in control. She could tell him what to do and he would do it.

But it didn’t feel strange or dehumanizing. It wasn’t an empty performance, not from her side. It was just how they were together. And that felt good, natural even. Could he really be seeing something so different?

She cleared her throat. “Do you know what a safeword is?” she asked, starting simple. She was going to stick to the question of safety. It was important and it kept them away from the potentially embarrassing topic of whether she’d been mistaken in assuming this was a real relationship.

“Yeah.”

“Do you need one?”

He looked confused now. “I thought I could just ask you to stop?”

“But you haven’t,” she said, getting at the heart of what was bothering her. “Not once in six months.”

“You’re good at this,” he said. “And we don’t do anything dangerous.”

“Just last week,” Mariah said, “I made a mistake, hurt you with my damn ring. And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t tell me to stop. Why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to stop,” he said. “You sat on my face and…” he smiled, shrugged. “I got distracted.”

“Didn’t it hurt?” She wasn’t down on her own pussy, but surely it wasn’t good enough to kill pain.

“It hurt like a bitch,” he admitted, “but I loved it. Like I said – you’re good. And we don’t do anything dangerous.”

Mariah frowned. There were people who liked more pain than others. Was his experience just calibrated that differently than hers? Even so… “What if I do consider that dangerous? Or if I want to do something _you_ consider dangerous?” she asked. “There should be,” she ran through some of the things she’d been reading about, “guidelines, negotiations, contracts…”

He blinked, looked at her laptop and back at her. “That must have been some video.”

“Answer the question.”

“Just do what you want. I can take it.”

There was her sense of disquiet again. _Why_ was he so blasé about this? “The point isn’t whether you can. I’ve worked with domestic violence shelters: I know how much people _can_ take. That doesn’t make it right.”

He made a face. “ _Domestic violence_?” he asked, incredulity in his voice. “You’re not trying to push me down the stairs, break my bones…”

That insight into what he considered real violence made her even more concerned. Good news: he did have limits. He knew he could tell her to stop. Bad news: his limits were broken bones and attempted homicide by staircase.

“I could really hurt you,” she said.

“No,” he said, “you couldn’t.”

“If you won’t tell me to stop for anything short of broken bones…”

Things could spiral fast. She had once beaten a man to death in front of him. A man who was younger and stronger than her. She hadn’t even meant to before the impulse overtook her, though Shades didn’t seem able to see that. She doubted he would ever do anything to take her out of her own mind like that. But, even if they didn’t have that disturbing history, the new things she wanted to do involved him bound, unable to protect himself. By any objective measurement, that _was_ dangerous.

The simple fact was that she could indeed hurt him very badly. But he seemed immune to facts. Was this like protecting her and not telling her about it, more male ego? If so, if he cared about her so much, why didn’t he care how hurting him could make her feel? The idea that you could hurt someone by the way you let _them_ hit _you_ was a niche problem, she could see that, but he’d done this before. Surely he should be familiar with the concept?

He seemed to want her to share something real. Reach into the deep and possessive yearning she had inside herself. He seemed to value that as something special between the two of them, not an emotionally detached fetish service. There were plenty of prostitutes who could provide an act while bored out of their minds. When she did things they came from someplace. She meant it as an act of intimacy, even love. Though she wasn’t one to say that word. He _must_ want someone who meant it. But he was refusing to help her feel safe about that. She just needed him to provide a safety net in case she fell. Why couldn’t he see that?

“Do you have a screw loose?” she asked, genuinely confused.

And then, much to her surprise, he was angry: his jaw tightened and he looked away before speaking. “This is the nicest way anyone has said it. I’ll give you that. But all of you—” he said, disgust in his voice, “you’re all like this. You think liking,” he gestured to the space between them, “ _this_ makes me some kind of pussy.” He sent her a sharp glance and then looked away, shaking his head.

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?” she asked. He was accusing her of something but it didn’t make sense. It was like they were having two different conversations.

“This whole condescending exercise,” he said. “You’re treating me like an idiot. But,” he pinned her with his eyes, “tell me the truth. You didn’t even know you wanted this until you met me. Did you?”

“I can assure you,” Mariah said, annoyed, “I had a vigorous sex life long before I met you.”

“I’m not doubting that,” he said. “I’m saying that you,” he leaned forward, put his hand near her knee on the couch, close but just outside her personal space, “didn’t know you wanted this. _I_ did that.”

He was turning on that charm of his. It was a form of seduction that did fascinate her. He didn't so much press his interest on her as draw hers in close to him. He didn’t want to push his way in, no: he wanted her to come out and play. It was special in her experience and potent in a way that got its hooks into her deep.

She wasn’t about to admit that, though.

“Does all this bragging have a purpose?” Mariah asked. This did seem to work with the idea that he thought this was a real relationship too. Someone desiring a simple service didn’t care that much about the inner workings of the person providing. But his perspective on the nature of it was confusing.

“I am proud of it,” he said, leaning back all casual, his arm across the back of the couch. But his eyes were still hot on her. “Why shouldn’t I be? But that’s not the point. The point is that you keep talking to me like I’m a brainless victim because of what I like. But I started this. I pursued you.”

“And that means I shouldn’t give a damn about safety?”

“I’m saying you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been with much scarier people than you,” he said, frustration coming back into his voice. “And I’ve been in much scarier places than your—“ he waved his hand, “beautiful home here. And no one has ever,” he repeated her own words with like they were ridiculous, “ _really hurt_ me.” He took a breath, let that sink in, and then continued more calmly. “This leash pulls both ways,” he explained. Then he frowned. “Unless that’s the problem?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to process what he’d just said. She’d heard the words, but there was a lot there to unpack.

Starting with the assertion that he was too tough for anybody to hurt. No one went into the system as young as he had and stayed in as long as he did without being really hurt at least once. And what she’d seen of his records supported that. She had the connections to put together a pretty clear picture from his first juvenile charge on, and she took advantage of that when he first showed up with Cornell. His life followed a very predictable route. Poverty and family violence that led to him acting out. Then he was thrown in juvie with kids a lot older and bigger than him because the system wasn’t designed to protect poor little brown boys. The same way the world wasn’t designed to protect little black girls.

It wasn’t something they ever needed to talk about, but Mariah had cherished the idea that they understood each other on that level. Sometimes you were powerless, but that wasn’t the same thing as being weak. Except it looked like he couldn’t admit it to her and perhaps not even to himself. She wasn’t a model of mental health herself, but that made her heart ache. Did being a man make it so difficult or did liking what he liked play into it too?

“You’ve been distant and now you’re upset,” he said. “You’re trying to say it’s about me, but I’ve told you I’m fine. And I am.” He tilted his head, seemed to look right through her. “But you’re not, are you?”

Mariah nearly laughed at the way their worry was cutting across each other. There was humor and relief too. Their misunderstanding didn’t arise from malice or lack of feeling. He was just off on this topic. His keen emotional intelligence—which she was used to him wrapping around her like a warm blanket—fell apart here because he was too busy being nuts. It did take a lot of energy; she knew that from experience. It was sad but not her place to interfere.

A person could get by their whole life on the right piece of self-deception.

Everybody did it. God forbid she be the one to throw stones. Besides, she was too relieved that her fears were misplaced. She could happily live with this kind of crazy. It was what she’d signed up for. As long as they both cared they could figure it out. There was no need to hide.

“Lately, I’ve scared myself,” she admitted. It did feel good to just say it. “You might not need protection,” she said, “you might be able to take anything I can dish out. But I don’t think I can take doing it. Not without some rules, so I can know for sure what’s safe. So I don’t have to feel sick with myself in the morning.”

It was like slipping a key into a lock: his whole demeanor shifted. It went soft and tender, the way he had been with her when they first met. “You’ve been unhappy,” he said, regret clear in his voice. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I tried to,” Mariah said.

He shook his head. “You _tried_ to talk to me like a grade school social worker asking about a black eye,” he said. “And only because I walked in on you watching porn.”

Mariah glanced away at the blank screen of the television, thought it over. “I wanted to handle it myself,” she admitted without explaining the exact nature of her fears. She met his eyes. “I do get tired of you knowing more than I do about things.”

“Mariah,” he said, his tone equal parts exasperation and affection, “you know more than I do about practically everything. I have just two subjects I can best you on,” he enumerated on his thumb and index finger, “crime and perverted sex.” He grinned ruefully. “And you’re rapidly outpacing me on crime. So,” he tilted his head, made sweet, inviting eyes at her, “why not let me help out on this?”

He was so precious to her. Mariah reached out, cupped his cheek. “You’re not doing so bad on my subjects,” she said, really letting herself connect with him for the first time in a week. “And you’d be doing better if someone would stop breaking your books.”

He laughed, reached up to put his hand over hers. But he wasn’t going to be distracted now that he had gotten a hold on the problem between them. “What else kept you from talking to me?”

“I don't know. I suppose I didn’t want to ruin,” she wasn’t sure how to explain it, “the mystique. The—“ she sighed, ”whatever it is that makes this thing work.”

He turned his head to kiss her palm. “Mariah,” he breathed, “I’m not ever going to think less of you.“ Hearing it she finally understood how much she had needed to be told that. What a relief it was. “Can’t you see that? Just talk to me. We can do whatever you need.”

God, she had missed this so much. “Okay,” Mariah said, reluctantly drawing her hand back to rub absently at her neck. Her shoulders were in knots after what probably counted as their first fight. “But later…” she shook her head. “Not right now.”

He reached out, put a warm hand on her shoulder.  “May I?”

“God, yes,” she said, turning so he had access.

She felt herself relax as his strong thumbs worked into her muscles, tension draining out. “Shades,” she said, not unkindly, “you’re my lover and my business partner. I’d never hear a bad word about you.” That was the closest she could come to saying all she felt right now. He was hers. Her lover, her family, her partner, her friend – hers no matter what name you called it. And nobody came at him without her stepping up. “But you’re crazy,” she threw a glance back over her shoulder, “you know that, right?”

"Yeah," he said, his hands not stopping their blessed work on her shoulders, “probably.”

She thought about the mire of fears and anxieties she’d allowed to swallow her up the past week. She probably could have resolved this that very first morning if she’d just talked to him. But there was no use beating herself up about it. They had to find their way through this as the people they were, not the people they wished they were. He was sensitive to her moods; he probably felt abandoned this last week. And then she came at him with her ‘social worker’ talk, as he called it. She reached up, patted his hand in silent apology. “Guess I’m not so sane myself.”

He went still then, taking that in. After a moment he leaned forward, brushed her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck. "I’d never hear a bad word about you," he said. She thought he was saying everything back to her that she had loaded that phrase up with. She felt that and let herself believe it. He gave her neck another soft kiss.

Heat prickled at her eyes. She took a deep breath and sighed, letting the feeling out slowly. Then she brought her hand up behind her head to stroke the soft bristle of his close-cropped hair.

Their first fight and it wasn’t over anything normal. But, then again, why would it be?

"You going to finish the job back there or just breathe on my neck?" she asked, when the moment needed to break.

He laughed, returning his fingers to her tense muscles.

When he had finishing working the knots out, she felt loose and sleepy. She leaned back into the warmth of his body. It was like coming home after being out in the cold. He put his arms around her waist. “Want to watch something?” He gave a deliberate pause and then continued, amusement in his voice. “Like some of that filthy porn you’ve got stashed on your laptop?”

Mariah snorted. “If I have to watch any more of that melodramatic crap I’m going celibate —“ she felt it as he laughed in response to that. She could feel him breathing, his warmth and affection all around her. It was so nice and cozy in his arms. She nudged him over, into the position she wanted, lying so their bodies fit together just so. “Find a nature documentary on Netflix,” she said. He grabbed the remote and did as told. She half-drifted to a soothing man’s voice telling her about long winters in the Arctic Circle. Conditions were harsh, but the creatures that lived there were well adapted to their environment.

 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> First off, big thanks to everyone who commented on the previous two fics! You rock. This last fic was a lot harder to write and I found the comments really good encouragement when I was frustrated with the process. I also want to thank notyourfuckingalatea for beta reading and being willing to talk out (at great length!) the character psychology. Everyone who's posted meta too - I've totally been inspired by it, particularly [this conversation](http://mswyrr.tumblr.com/post/151875514955/10-principles-for-healthy-247-ds-and-ms), which helped me work out some of the wrinkles of what exactly was going wrong and how they might approach fixing it. Second, the views expressed by Mariah about kink communities here are not exactly mine -- she's coming at it from her own perspective. Though it's 100% true that kink spaces are (like so many other spaces) heavily influenced by white privilege and white supremacy. Finally, the title is a great lyric from [a song](http://www.metrolyrics.com/fallin-flyin-lyrics-colin-farrell-jeff-bridges.html) that I otherwise am not that into lol. I don't consider it a soundtrack for this fic: I mostly listened to [this](https://youtu.be/ebQoEpoyLeQ), [this](https://youtu.be/VlCZ-DakfyE), and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbTZKxe4m7E) while writing.


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